Lost Souls
by Calinero
Summary: The Carroll Institute--an isolated hospital for victims of the Dementor's Kiss. Those who would work in such a place have their reasons--sometimes secret ones. Then, the Institute falls under siege. What hides in the empty eyes of the patients?
1. The Night Shift

Chapter 1

"Good evening, Mr. Barrows."

It was late at night, and some of the chill from the ocean breeze outside had managed to work its way into the Institute. Charlie fought back a shiver as he raised his wand over Dominic Barrows's head.

"I know, I know, it's late—I should be getting to bed." He tapped his wand against Barrows's htemple, to no response. "But, you guys have to be seen to first…then it's lights out for me."

Barrows lied on the cot motionless, eyes open and staring into space. Charlie didn't mind—he was used to it. Besides, if Barrows had been awake, there would be problems.

After all, Barrows was one of the most notorious warlocks of the decade.

Fortunately for Charlie Holcomb, Healer at the Carroll Institute, Barrows had not robbed any pure-blooded families or forced any muggles into killing each other with the Imperius Curse for quite some time. The Aurors had caught up to him eventually (their numbers replenished once again after the first war with the Dark Lord finally ended) and he had not gone down easily. After taking the lives of two Aurors sent after him, it had been easy for the prosecution to obtain the right to use the Dementor's Kiss. No, Barrows hadn't killed anyone for several years. He hadn't done anything at all, besides breathe, and stare. It was Charlie's job to make sure he kept doing it.

Pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders, Charlie tapped Barrows's temple again with his wand, muttering a few words under his breath as he did so. The spells put in place to feed the patients and keep them from getting bedsores practically took care of themselves, and only needed maintenance every once in a while. He frowned as he saw his breath fog up in front of him…it was far too cold in here. He would need to see to it that the heating charms were working properly once he got back to the office by the entrance to the Wing. Having it too cold could get the inmates—Charlie was never sure whether to call them patients, inmates, or even victims—sick, and the last thing he needed was to have to fight off colds and pneumonia for dozens of bedridden vegetables.

He scratched his head as he looked down at Barrows, frowning to himself. He was never one for talking to himself, but sometimes he really couldn't help it on the night shift. The silence went on and on, it became almost deafening. It helped to say something, _anything_ to fill the empty halls with the sound of a human voice—even your own.

Not some nights, though, thought Charlie. No, some nights, the sound of your voice was even worse. To hear it ringing off the walls, changing a bit with each echo, and knowing that—despite the dozens and dozens of living, breathing people in the Wing—yours was the only voice that would ever come back to you. Sometimes, talking only made the contrast more aggravating.

After making sure that nothing had changed about Barrows's condition, Charlie tapped his wand against the apparatus lying on the table next to his bed. It was in good order, providing all the nutrients that Barrows would need. Of course, no one could survive on conjured foods forever…every now and then, the machines needed to be restocked with real food. That time would not come for a while, though, so Charlie had nothing more to do here. With another small shiver, he walked away from the cot, pushing his cart of supplies in front of him as he went. He had never needed them, they were only in case of emergencies—or for the occasions that he came across a patient only to find that they had slipped away at some point between inspections. At that point, procedure took over, but the day would almost certainly be ruined…there was nothing worse than coming across one of those still forms, reaching out to touch the body before realizing that the eyes staring up at you are empty and cold.

The cart's wheels squeaked as Charlie pushed it down the hallway. Looking behind him, he nodded in silent approval to himself. The night's inspection was done, and now he could head off to sleep. It wouldn't be his turn to do a night shift for another few days. It was the most hated assignment of the Institute, even more so than a night shift at any other place. Working alone at night was bad enough, but with all of those eyes staring up at you, and the eerie silence…it was enough to give Charlie the shivers, if he hadn't already had them from the cold.

It was with no reluctance that he left the corridor behind, having already seen to the patients on the third and second floor. When he shut the door behind him, the lights in the East Wing of the Carroll Institute went off. The Wing's patients, all of them witches, wizards, and muggles who were victims of the Dementor's Kiss, were plunged into darkness.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

That night, as Charlie Holcomb tried to go to sleep on that lonely, unnamed island that was so far from the St. Mungo's where he had once worked, only a few clouds drifted over the Carroll Institute. The moon had been full only a few nights ago, and its waning form still shone down brightly enough on the land for any pedestrian to be able to make their way between the various Wings. Not that there were any pedestrians, of course—the island was several miles west of Holyhead, where no muggles would know about it and few wizards would care.

Its existence was not a secret. In fact, the Institute had been very briefly popular, once. More than one hundred years ago, just before the turn of the century, a little girl named Alice Carroll caught the attention of the wizarding world. No one ever determined exactly what the little witch had been doing out alone, or who her parents were…it was believed that she was some sort of orphan. No one ever found the dementor that attacked her either, though dozens were driven away in a furious retribution after Alice's story became widespread. All that is sure is that one morning the eight year old girl was found by an old witch on her morning walk, staring blankly into space as she would for the rest of her life, devoid of a soul.

Something about the case caught the eye of _The Daily Prophet_, which was publishing strongly even back then. Perhaps it was the appeal that such a cute victim would have to the public, and the strong response it would bring—or maybe they just wanted a chance of pace from reporting on the recent Dragon Smuggling Scandal that had dominated the headlines. Either way, the wizarding public became both enraged by what had happened to the girl, and desperate to know what would happen to her.

The rage was expressed first by some very ill advised attacks on dementors, who are not known to respond well to violence, and led to much stricter control over them by the Ministry. However, the girl's fate was still a question on the minds of many members of the public. What would happen to her?

For a long time, before the Institute, most victims of the Dementor's Kiss were simply given into the care of their families. Many of them simply rotted there, dying within months, mute and unblinking. Other families discretely put their loved one out of his or her misery. However, those without families were often dumped into St. Mungo's, which could not hold all the victims of Dementor attacks, and wasn't suited for any sort of 'long term' care. Eventually, a proposal was made in an anonymous letter sent to _The Daily Prophet_—a new hospital, meant for the long-term care of these soulless victims.

It meant that there would be a home for little Alice, which was exactly what the good wizarding folk of England wanted to hear. Support grew for the idea, and the Ministry of Magic—eagerly wanting to regain credibility and public support after the disastrous scandals that had befallen some of its top men—jumped onto the bandwagon. The project was given a grant, and a name, and soon the Institute grew. It grew into a collection of four Wings, with an administrative office located in the East Wing, the first and largest.

As the moon continued to climb on its slow arc over the Institute, its rays bore down on the stone paths that twisted throughout the grounds. The grass did not overgrow the stones, though that said more about the poor soil and weather of the island than about any spectacular groundskeeping. The path led from the small, dark dock on the eastern end of the island and twisted its way across the flattened landscape, weaving in through the strategically placed trees until it reached the East Wing. From there, it branched off into a collection of stony roots, tapering away from the main trunk of the path to encircle the building and take the rare visitor to one of the other three wings. The paths met in a small circle in the center of the grounds, a picturesque fountain adorning the inside of the circle, complete with elaborate and optimistic statues spewing forth water regardless of the time of day or season. It made for a very elegant picture on paper, but in reality stood in a slightly pathetic contrast to the dreary weather and utilitarian stone of the Institute's buildings. The gush of interest—and therefore, funding—that had accompanied the Institute's birth had not lasted long, and had suffered terribly during both of the wars with the Dark Lord. There was little budget for beautifying the grounds, or even keeping the place up to date.

And so, the sad little fountain stood in the center of the Institute, surrounded by the buildings full of the silently staring dead, hundreds of soulless shells that used to be human beings. Not only human beings, but many of them were some of the wizarding world's worst criminals. The trees waved nearly silently in the breeze, the slight rustling noise they made falling upon no ears save those of the stone walls around them. A few leaves shook loose of their branches, having survived the autumn season that had led them to this September night only to lose their struggle so close to winter.

The path, though its separate streams all joined together at this one point, did have one more branch leading away from the circle. It did not lead to another one of the Wings, but instead took a longer route away from the main body of the Institute. It was not a path that was as well kept as the others, or as large, for it was unlikely that any visitor was ever going to need to use it. It led to the dormitories for the Institute's staff, just behind the North Wing. At first, there had been quarters for the staff inside the Wings themselves, but eventually the Healers had objected. They didn't like sleeping in the same building as so many lifeless husks, and eventually they were given the funds to build a separate dormitory.

That dormitory stood a ways off from the North Wing, and almost all of its lights were off when Charlie began his trek across the grounds to reach it. He was not the only one working at night, but funds were tight enough that most of the people working the night shift were working in their own sections, and didn't see much of the others. As far as appearances went, it felt like he was the only person awake on the whole island.

The wind was cold as he stepped over the stones and grass that led to the dormitory. When he finally reached the door, he couldn't resist taking a look back at the Wings he had left behind. They stared back at him—a chill went down his spine as he saw the windows, windows that he knew had patients behind them whose eyes could very well be pointed right at him, this very second. He always wondered how much, if anything, those eyes could see…whether they knew or not that….

"No." The sound of his own voice nearly startled him, and he shook his head as he shivered. "No, Charlie, you are not going down that road, mate." Not if he wanted to get any sleep tonight, anyway.

He frowned. Talking to himself again. This place was not doing any favors for his mental health. With one last shiver, he stepped into the warmth and security of the dorm, closing the door on the Wings and their occupants and shutting them out of his mind—at least, for the rest of the night.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Nicholas's eyes had lost most of their reddish tinge by the time that nine o'clock rolled around the next morning. A decade ago he would have been fine, he was sure, but these days it took one of the steaming cups of tea sitting on his desk to keep him going at this time of day. Some days he even had to upgrade to coffee—a disgusting drink, in his opinion, but Merlin's beard, did it have a kick.

He grunted. Damned old age. This was no place for a man to be getting on in years, he would much rather be back in London, where the weather was at least bearable. With a sigh, he took another gulp of his tea, leaving little but dregs at the bottom of the cup. No tea leaves today, he knew what his future would hold—a lot of boring deskwork, followed by making his rounds, which would be just as tedious.

With a glance at the calendar, he noticed that it was Saturday. Out here, so far from any normal social events, it got easy to lose track of what day it was. He groaned—if it was Saturday, that meant there could be visitors. They weren't common, as most people preferred not to remember their loved ones as lifeless vegetables, but they came every so often. It made for even more hassle, as someone would have to escort the visitors to see whichever patient they had come to see.

The door opened, letting a bit of breeze in, and Nicholas sat up with a start. For a moment, he thought that some early-rising visitor had come already, before he recognized the woman who had walked in. She couldn't be much older than twenty-five, putting a considerable gap between her and Nicholas…a gap of at least thirty or forty years. He would have liked to blame her cheery expression on the energy given to her by her youth, but he knew it would have been a lie. Lenore was one of the cheeriest people he had ever met, particularly in the Healing profession. She was certainly more optimistic than anyone else who had the misfortune to be working on this island.

"Good morning, Mr. Gattabee," she said as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door, next to Nicholas's own. "The weather doesn't seem to be getting much better…I wonder if it will keep the visitors away."

He grunted once more, shaking his head as he finished off the remnants of his tea.

"I told you to call me Nicholas. Or Nick." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, feeling a stiffness in his spine that seemed to be getting worse every morning. "'Mr. Gattabee' makes me feel old."

She giggled and strode over to the desk, fishing around in one of the folders for her own. It held her assignment for the day—which patients she was to check on, and what hours she would need to be in the East Wing for. She probably already knew, as there wasn't a whole lot of change in routine around the Institute, but it never hurt to double check.

He looked at the folder, albeit upside down, as she peered into it. There was little else to do at the desk, and he found himself wishing he had brought the book he had been reading instead of leaving it in the dormitory.

"You're on the fourth and fifth floor again?"

She nodded absent mindedly, flipping through the pages to make sure everything was in order. There wasn't a lot to it, seeing to the patients, but Nicholas knew that Lenore took it seriously. Finishing with the folder, she put it back on the desk and smiled once again, a bit more wearily this time.

"It looks like it, Nick. " She shook her head, the beginnings of a frown forming on her face. "If the weather out there gets much colder, I don't think we'll be getting any visitors today—the wind is blowing something awful."

Nicholas shrugged.

"As long as it doesn't storm, we'll be fine. They can always come another day."

As they spoke, another Healer trudged into the Wing. He was apparently a man who shared Nicholas's attitudes towards mornings, as he was barely able to manage a grunt and a nod in the general direction of the pair at the desk. He grabbed his folder and made his way through to the corridors of patients without a second look at them. Lenore continued to stand at the desk and talk to Nicholas—after all, it wasn't like the patients were good anywhere.

"Yes, I suppose they can," she said, fiddling with her quill, "But it _does_ cheer me up to see visitors come. It reminds me that there's someone besides us who cares about these people."

Nicholas made a noncommittal sort of noise, not wanting to come out and say that he doubted that even most of the Healers on the island cared much about 'these people.' Despite the fact that many of them were criminals who had received the Kiss after committing heinous crimes, even those who were innocent victims were still empty shells, skin and flesh kept alive by magic and perseverance alone. Most of the Healers had long since come to terms with the fact that the husks they took care of were no longer people in the true sense of the word. While he supposed that some, like Lenore, were here for genuinely charitable and admirable reasons, most people were here because they wanted to be as far away from polite society as possible, or had screwed up. Speaking of which…

"Have you seen Dunkirk around today?" Nicholas asked Lenore as she began to walk towards the lift. She shook her head.

"No, I think he's in his office already, getting the paperwork ready for the visitors."

"Heh. Or maybe just sleeping late."

She laughed, and turned back towards the stairs.

"See you later, Nicholas!" She called back towards him as the door closed behind her. He waved to her with a small smile before turning back to his desk. He was in a bit of a better mood as he put his cup away, reminding himself to clean it later. Lenore was a good Healer, if a bit inexperienced, and it did him good to be reminded that some people actually had chosen to be here. Of course, he had chosen…in a way. Not that he had left himself with many other options.

A shiver that was only partially from the cold went down Nicholas's spine, and a bit of his cheeriness was lost when he sat back down in his chair. Everyone had a reason to come to a place like this—and few of them were happy. Not everyone was like Lenore.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Wesley Dunkirk scarcely looked up from his parchment as when he spoke to Charlie. He had the inflappable air of a bureaucrat—the sense that all of his actions were distinctly removed from any sort of personal level by at least three layers of paperwork. Charlie, sitting across from him, wasn't so poised.

"Are you _serious_?" His eyes were only slightly red from the night before, but the bags under them were still noticeable. Wesley, a man who was a little young to be sitting in the Director's chair of nearly any Institution, was perhaps five years younger than Charlie's forty. His black hair was neatly slicked back, and his robes were clearly not the kind meant to be worn while walking amongst patients—they were far too dressy. The Director, as far as Wesley concerned, should be above petty chores such as making rounds and treating patients and be more concerned with the welfare of the Institute in general—and that included keeping up appearances.

"Devons is sick, and Fillmont is heading back to the mainland. Nervous breakdown, or some such thing." He sighed, dipping his quill into the inkwell before returning to his scribbles. "The other Healers are all busy with actual duties, except for the most junior ones…and I can't trust them with this."

"Dunkirk…." Wesley looked up crossly, and Charlie corrected himself. "Director…I got maybe four hours of sleep last night. I worked the night shift three nights in a row. I'm _tired_."

"And after the visitors have come and you've guided them through, you'll be free to sleep." A patronizing smile crossed Westley's face as he set his paper aside, having reached the bottom with the tip of his quill. "If I recall correctly, your vacation even starts soon. Just look forward to that, instead of thinking about the work."

Charlie nearly voiced another protest, then sighed instead and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Beginning to become resigned to his fate, he looked back up at Wesley through bleary eyes. He was already counting the hours until the ferry would come to pick up the visitors and take them back to the mainland, far away from him—then, they would be someone else's problem.

"All right…how many are we going to have?"

Wesley flipped through a notebook on his desk, stopping at one of the topmost pages. His finger traced along with the print as he read it.

"Only three, it seems…one is a young man, a brother of a certain…" Another rustle of the page. "Wyatt Early, a thief and murderer who was given the Kiss in Azkaban." Charlie grunted, slightly surprised.

"Don't get many murderers who have visitors…even from family."

"From what I understand, he was more of a murderer-by-accident than by any real malevolence." Wesley had skimmed the rest of the page out of idle interest-there were notes on all of the patients, and what sort of threat they might pose if they ever woke up—an unlikely occurrence, to say the least. "He was stumbled across during a robbery, and a scuffle broke out. The homeowner wound up dead, and Mr. Early got a ticket straight to Azkaban. The brother has apparently learned from the error of his brother's ways, however. A clean record."

Charlie nodded, satisfied. Even if Early had been some sort of monster, it still was possible that he'd have some family come to visit. The bonds of blood could do some funny things—they made you tend to overlook even the deepest flaws. Charlie was suddenly reminded of his own brother back in London, and he belatedly realized that he hadn't spoken with him in more than six months. This island had a way of making you lose track of the real world…he was looking forward to his vacation more than ever. Not that going back to London would be without its flaws, of course…there were people in the city he wasn't looking forward to seeing again. Seeing Janice would be awkward—

He bit back those bittersweet memories to give his attention back to Wesley, who seemed to have become more interested in reading the notes on Early than in giving Charlie the information he had asked for. Charlie cleared his throat, causing Wesley to look back up at him across the fine wooden desk.

"What is the brother's name?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Brian, I believe." He looked back at the original sheet of paper, and nodded to himself. "Yes, Brian. The other two visitors are a couple, here to visit their daughter…Mr. and Mrs. Melville. An old couple, come to see…oh." He made a 'tsk' noise with his tongue against his teeth, and shook his head disapprovingly. "A woman from the purges. Anna."

Charlie grimaced, and looked down at his fingers. Voldemort's rise to power had been temporary, but had had all too lasting effects. Among those were quite a few of the patients at the Carroll Institute—people who had, in some way or another, offended the Dark Lord's regime and attracted his wrath. Before his power had been wrested away, that monster had been responsible for having the Dementor's Kiss performed upon quite a few dissidents. It was one of the greatest tragedies of his reign, that those few brave souls who had the strength to resist the tyrant would be punished so horrifically. Even Wesley's bureaucratic exterior seemed to be pierced for a moment, before he cleared his throat and straightened the files in his hand until they were as perfectly aligned as everything else on his desk. He held out the files for Charlie to take.

"Keep an eye on them, be respectful and courteous…you know what to do. Give them their time with the patient they are here to see, then help them on their way. All the information on where to find the patients is in there—as well as their medical history, if they should actually request it for some reason." There would be little point in such a thing—the file for virtually every patient on the island was almost identical. There was very little change in the condition of a dementor victim, unless the shell left behind should be so unfortunate as to fall victim to some virus or other disease. It was a bit of a joke among the Healers at the Institute that all of the patient files were lost and mixed on a regular basis, but no one had noticed the difference yet. It was a black sort of humor that could only have sprouted up in the shadows of the Institutes stone walls.

"Yes, sir." Charlie took the folder from him and rose to leave. As he was on his way out, Wesley called to him.

"Oh, and if you get the chance, please send someone down to Elaine and let her know that I need to speak to her about funding. Her spells have my memos all confused, I sent them to her and they wind up in the women's washroom in the South Wing. Or do it yourself, if you have time."

Charlie sighed, but nodded as he left the office. Distractions gone, Wesley only looked after him for a moment before returning to his paperwork. His father would be convening the Board of Director's at St. Mungo's shortly after Boxing Day, and he hoped to have all of the Institute's affairs in good order by then. If he could make an impressive showing, it might look good on his resume—good enough to have him considered for a post on the mainland. Anywhere but this horrible Institute.

Of course, he had already worked in some of those other places. His success record was—spotty, at best. But, then again, that was why he had come out here in the first place. To get a fresh start, with an important but routine assignment that would help him to prove his abilities once more. At least, that was the plan he and his father had come up with. It couldn't help but occur to Wesley, however, that the plan was equally effective at removing him from his father's path as he strengthened his own position at St. Mungo's, now blessedly free of any embarrassment his failure of a son might have caused him.

With a sigh, Wesley dipped his quill into the inkwell once more—it was almost dry, he would have to replace it soon—and returned to work. Everything had to be perfect. At least, as close as humanely possible.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Elaine Winters's face was a perfect image of concentration as she leaned over the body of her patient, her own narrow face only inches away from the slack, staring visage of Thomas Narrows. A young man who had been convicted of murdering his landlady, Thomas had been a patient at the Institute for several years. Elaine's wand was pointed at his temple, and a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek as she muttered the words of her spell carefully and precisely.

The two were surrounded by strange looking equipment, made of steel and bronze and other materials that would require either guesswork or a chemistry degree to name. One of these machines had an orb suspended in the air above it, surrounded by several silver rings of increasing size. These rings were spinning quickly, though none of them on quite the same tilt, and sparks seemed to jump from the center outwards. Other machines near it were in motion as well, all of their motions and energy seeming to center in one place—the table upon which Elaine had rested her test subject.

The muggle-born witch continued for nearly five minutes before ceasing her chant and letting her wand fall to her side. The machines continued for a moment before coming to a slow halt, the low buzz of energy that had filled the room slowly fading away. For a long moment, Elaine simply stared at Thomas's empty eyes, none of the disappointment she felt showing on her pale face. Finally, she turned away and walked away from the table, taking a seat at her desk and jotting down notes on the failed experiment. She was determined to learn from her failures, if nothing else. After all, some of the greatest witches and wizards of the ages had attempted to figure out how to restore the victim of a dementor attack with no success—it was arrogant to assume that she would succeed where they failed, not without some sort of marvelous breakthrough.

Still, it was what she hoped for. She idly toyed with the cross that hung on a chain around her other neck, her other hand jotting down her notes with a quill. There were still times when she regretted the fact that pens apparently had not caught on in the wizarding world, but she had grown used to the more archaic ways of writing. As she wrote her notes, the many machines that filled the room—many of them built by Elaine herself—sat unused and still.

However, the energy that they had been using and radiating was not so still. Their activities had sent out a call, a call that had strived to pierce through layers of time and space and reality that had not been broached by mankind in all of its history save through the one natural means of doing so—by dying. The echoes of that energy bounced across the world, stirring powers that were sensitive to such things and kicking up currents that had remained long still.

And, somewhere in the depths of the magic that inhabits our world, a chord was struck. All across the world, the ripples from the machines were felt, and suddenly a great deal more attention was focused on the Carroll Institute and its lonely island than anyone had ever intended.

All across the world, the dementors stirred.

A/N: This is a bit of a departure from my normal stories…I haven't tried horror before. I welcome all of you readers to come along for the ride with me. I'm having a bit of a busy time with real-life things at the moment, so I can't say how regularly this story is going to update. However, the idea has stayed with me for more than a year without growing stale yet, so I think it might have some real potential. Let's see how deep the shadows in the Carroll Institute really go, shall we?


	2. Visitor's Day

Chapter Two

As was typical in the winter and autumn months, a thick fog had risen up around the island that held the Carroll Institute. To a muggle seaman, or even a novice wizarding sailor, the voyage would have been difficult. Perhaps even dangerous. However, the man who captained the little ferry was a wizard who had been sailing in the area for years. He made a living for himself ferrying muggles, mostly, but was still willing to go a bit out of his way to take wizards to the Institute whenever they took it into their minds to visit. Whistling as he worked, he made heavy use of his navigational charms to keep the ferry clear of any submerged rocks or other nautical dangers.

A man who appeared to be in his thirties—though for wizards, appearances could be deceiving—stood leaning against the railing of the ship, seemingly holding no concern for falling over the edge and into the murky sea. Though the wind was blowing into his face, ruffling his dirty blond hair around his piercing green eyes, his face gave no sign that he even noticed the disturbance. Brian Early was too concerned with internal matters to care about the sea spray that flecked into his face.

His thoughts were on his younger brother Wyatt, currently rotting away in the Institute he was about to go visit. A feeling of frustration, anger, and something that might have resembled grief rumbled somewhere deep inside of him, but it was easily ignored. Less easily ignored was an emotion that Brian had scarcely felt in his life—guilt. He felt almost…_badly_ about what had happened to his brother. Maybe it was because he had been there during the robbery that his brother had been arrested for…because he had helped with the murders, but had been smart enough not to get caught.

He shook his head. He had been smarter, Wyatt hadn't been clever enough and he had gotten caught. That was the way of the world, there was no use whining about it or wishing things were different. However, he was still going to visit Wyatt, if only to settle that unpleasant tingling feeling in his stomach that he got whenever he pictured his little brother lying on some filthy cot, his eyes staring holes into the ceiling day in and day out—

The sounds of the couple back in the ferry's cabin jolted him from his thinking. He found, to his surprise, that his fists had tightened around the railings until his knuckles were white. He slowly relaxed them, letting out a deep breath as he did so. Those two geezers must have been getting to him…well, they weren't _that _old, but they went on about their precious daughter like any two old windbags he had ever seen. If he had to listen one more time to a story about their 'brave little girl,' who had so _nobly _given her life up to fight against the Dark Lord's regime…he was going to spew all over the ship.

Looking around, Brian noticed that the sea had gotten a little bit mistier, the sky perhaps a bit cloudier. There was probably going to be a storm tonight, or at least a bit of rain. He would have been worried if he were a muggle, but the ferry would be fine in virtually any weather with the protection of magic. He gave a slight shiver as the wind picked up, cutting through his robe as though it weren't there.

He shook his head one last time to clear his thoughts, then turned away from the sea. He would head back into the cabin to get a bit of rest before seeing his brother. The visit would be bothersome, but he needed to do it.

After all, Wyatt was family.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I went to the last meeting, Wesley, I heard everything you said." The sharpness of Elaine's voice was not at all dampened by the way it echoed off the hallway's walls as she and the Director of the Institute walked briskly from her lab in the far end of the West Wing towards its front door. Wesley kept up with her easily, his legs being slightly longer than hers. Still, she was setting an unusually quick pace—one of the only ways of telling that she was annoyed. Her face was still perfectly cool and collected.

"Then you know that funding is in a precarious balance for the entire Institute, and not just you," he said, frowning at her. "Elaine, I _know _that what you do is important—"

"Do you really? Because I—"

"—_but_," he continued with a bit of a glare in her direction, "That doesn't mean that you are going to be exempt from budget cuts. _If _they happen."

She scoffed.

"_If_. As though there's any doubt that the Ministry wants to strangle this project."

"The Carroll Institute is a _highly_ respected—"

"You aren't fooling anyone, Wesley, not even yourself." She stopped and turned to look him in the eye. "You know just as well as I do that _no one _really wants to be here. No one wants to take care of these shells, or be reminded of the punishment that their elected government _chose_ to carry out for years. The mainland is just as unhappy with the idea, and unless we can come up with some concrete benefit for this Institute, it is going to die."

Wesley gaped for a moment, caught without a response in the face of her bluntness. His cheeks turning slightly red, he huffed for an instant before regaining his composure. He followed her as she began walking again, opening the door and stepping out into the grassy area in the center of the four Wings.

"My dear Healer, I do _not_ appreciate your attitude towards this Institute. We provide a very valuable service." Almost without realizing it, he began to slip into the sort of speech he was accustomed to giving at meetings and press conferences. "We take those unfortunate victims who have nowhere else to go. We—"

"Don't give me the spiel, Wesley, I know why we're here." She took another, hard look at him before turning away to keep walking. "And I know that my research is the best way—no, the _only_ way for us to keep this Institute alive. I believe in this place Wesley…more than any of the other Healers, probably more than you." Wesley opened his mouth to protest, but she ignored him and kept going. "So few people even realize the significance of what the Dementor's Kiss is, the _implications_. They take away our _souls_. What does that even mean? Does it prove that we have some sort of eternal existence, even more so than ghosts do? And what happens to those the Dementors kiss? Are they simply snuffed out, as though they never existed? And _where do those lost souls go_? I'm almost there, I can _feel _it—"

"Elaine." Wesley put a hand on her shoulder, cutting her off. "I know how strongly you feel about this. But you've claimed to be on the edge of breakthrough since you came here. As has every other researcher who has ever looked at dementors. I can't just keep giving you the same funding based on promises. The Institute is here to help people, and if the galleons you are getting for your program aren't going to bring about any results, than they would be better spent elsewhere."

It seemed apparent that Wesley had intended for those words to be the end of the conversation, but Elaine was not done.

"Don't pretend that you have any noble ideals about this place, Wesley, not when we all know that you wouldn't be here if your father thought you were capable of managing anywhere _else_—" She broke off as they reached the door to the East Wing. Wesley had stopped in his tracks, and his young-looking face was almost unreadable. For the first time in the conversation, a flicker of emotion besides frustration crossed Elaine's face as she realized that she may have gone too far.

"Wesley, I—"

"I stand by my earlier warning," he said, curtly and quietly. "I will need your official request for a budget continuance, and you may be called to a Board of Review when the budgetary discussions begin with the new year." With that, he turned and began striding back towards his office even more quickly than he had already been walking. Elaine could do nothing but stare after him as he went, before sighing and walking into the East Wing.

Nicholas was seated at the desk when she walked in, focused on reading a small paperback novel. He had been able to convince a taskless Healer to go and get it for him during a slow moment, and had been attempting to fight the boredom of desk duty ever since. He looked up to see Elaine enter, and nodded a hello to her. It was mostly ignored as she strode up to the desk purposefully.

"Has Healer Thistlewood checked in yet this morning?"

"Yes, Miss Winters. Spoke to her myself."

Elaine didn't seem interested in small talk, but nodded curtly instead.

"Please inform her that I am done experimenting with her patient, and that he is available for pickup whenever she pleases."

"All right." Nicholas shrugged. "I'll be sure to let her know. Want some tea, Miss Winters?" He gestured towards the pot he had brewed by the desk. He had had a craving after that first cup, and had ended up with more than he could drink. The aroma was tempting, but Elaine shook her head.

"No thank you. I'll be choosing my next subject from the second floor patients, if anyone needs me." Before he could make any real acknowledgment, she was walking past his desk and towards the lift, brushing by one of the Healers working on the first floor, a middle-aged man named Corbitt. He sighed and gave one last glance in her direction before turning back to his book. That Elaine was a real cold fish, never spent a lot of time with the other staff…to be honest, Nick thought she was a bit creepy, spending all that time experimenting on the patients. Not that he'd say it to her face—she seemed…well, polite, if not nice. That would have to do.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Charlie pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he walked across the grounds towards the dock. He was running a little bit late, and the last thing he needed was to be dealing with visitors who were irate from having to stand around in the cold waiting for their guide. The clouds that had been quite distant this morning were now ominously beginning to gather, and he had a hunch that rain of some sort would be coming soon. Hopefully he would be done with his tour duties and sleeping by then. Or at least indoors.

It was his lucky day—at least, it would have been if he hadn't already been forced into this obnoxious chore while sleep deprived. The boat was just pulling into the dock as he arrived. Assisted by magic, the ferry's captain didn't need any help getting it to remain steady as the three visitors stepped off. Charlie nodded his thanks to the captain, who tossed him a small salute and then began to pull the ferry away from the island. He would return in a few hours to pick up the visitors and take them back to the mainland.

In the meantime, they were all Charlie's.

He cleared his throat, directing the visitors' attentions to him. He could easily guess who was who—the couple were holding hands, and looked the right age to have an adult daughter. The Early brother was standing a ways off from them, looking a little bit surly. Charlie stepped forward, stopping close to the group.

"Good morning, everyone," he said, trying to sound cheery despite his near-exhaustion. "I'm Healer Holcomb, and I'll be your guide today. I'm sure you all want to get out of this cold as much as I do, so if you'll just follow me this way to the East Wing…"

The Melvilles nodded, smiling politely even though Charlie could see that their faces were strained. It must be difficult, he thought, coming to see your daughter in such a place. Nontheless, they seemed friendly enough. Early merely let out a quiet grunt and filed into place behind the older pair.

Charlie sighed. Well, at least none of them seemed to be the crying types. If they were, maybe they could at least wait until they reached their loved one before losing all control. It exhausted him to see people cry, he always felt as though there were something he should be doing to help, when really all he could do was stand back and give them some semblance of privacy. He began to walk briskly towards the East Wing, where the check-in book was located. It was also where Early's brother was treated, so going there would kill two birds with one stone. After he dropped Early off with his brother, he could take the Melvilles to see their daughter and he would be done until they were ready to leave.

As he walked away, he could see some of the steam rising into the air from the ferry before it became indistinguishable from the mist rising up from the ocean.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Lenore Thistlewood had stopped by the window on the second floor when she saw Charlie's figure crossing the grounds beneath her. Part of her wanted to tap against the window and try to get his attention, but she knew he probably wouldn't hear her. Besides, what could she do even if he did? Try to mouth some sort of conversation to him? It had been a silly idea. Instead, she simply watched as he walked by.

Charlie and she had struck up a sort of friendship as they worked on the island. Lenore was the newest addition to the Institute's staff, and Charlie had been the one to show her around—much as he was currently doing for the visitors. Though he hadn't seemed to think much of the job, and had probably been forced into doing it by Wesley, Lenore had found herself being drawn into conversation with him as they walked about the island. Now, several months later, he was still the only person on the island that she could have really meaningful conversations with, and she couldn't help but think that if they were on the mainland, she might have asked him out on a date. Of course, on this little island, there wasn't exactly much of a dating scene. Still, she flushed slightly as she watched him walk by beneath her.

She felt a little angry with herself for the flush—despite her peppy personality, she was _not _a schoolgirl anymore, and had no business getting silly crushes like one. She was an adult and had no business fawning over a coworker who might very well have no interest in her whatsoever.

Of course, _he _had seemed to enjoy their conversations too, and seemed less grumpy than he normally was when he was with her….maybe that meant…

She was virtually lost in these reflections when Elaine came up behind her. Lenore nearly jumped at the sound of Elaine's shoes, and spun around to face her. Her first instinct was to feel guilty for being distracted from her rounds, but she belatedly realized that this hospital was quite different from any of the ones she had been taught about in school. Patients were not likely to die because of her lack of diligence, and the rounds could easily wait. They weren't going anywhere, and none of their conditions were likely to change significantly. Still, it took her a moment to regain her composure, and Elaine used that moment to begin speaking in her assertive, authoritative voice.

"Healer Thistlewood, perfect. I was just looking for you." If Elaine was still bothered by her conversation with Wesley, her face did nothing to show it—though perhaps her voice was a _bit _distracted sounding. "I am finished with your patient, and am searching for a new one on this floor. If I choose another of yours, you'll have all the paperwork on your desk before they leave the building."

Caught slightly off guard, Lenore could only nod for a moment before remembering to speak.

"Oh—yes, of course, Elaine. And you can call me Lenore, you know."

Elaine only smiled patiently. While she hadn't been able to resist allowing Lenore to call her by her first name, she was still more…_comfortable_ remaining formal with the rest of the staff. After all, she wasn't here to make friends. Saving souls most certainly took precedence.

"I'll keep that in mind, Healer."

"I don't suppose you had any success, did you?"

It was an idle question, coming from Lenore—and she most likely already knew the answer. If there had been any sort of breakthrough in Elaine's research on the dementors' victims, it would have been the only news to spread throughout the island all day. There would be an uproar over it. Elaine simply shook her head and turned to leave, looking down at her list of the patients on the floor. Then, a stray thought caught her and she stopped. Elaine turned to look back at Lenore, who was still standing by the window.

"Healer Thistlewood…if you don't mind me asking…why are you here?"

Lenore blinked in response.

"Why am I….here? At the Institute?" Elaine nodded.

"Yes. I'm not naïve—I know that many of the Healers here came as a last resort, or because they are antisocial, or as a punishment. So few seem to really _believe _in—" She broke off, catching herself. "Anyway. My question is, why did _you _choose to come to this place?"

Lenore opened her mouth, then paused in thought. She was giving the question the consideration it deserved.

"I know that it sounds a bit daft, but I came here because I thought it was where I could do the most good."

Elaine looked at her for a moment, eyes revealing little.

"You really believe that? Out of the charity of your heart, and noble ideals, you came to this place?"

Lenore shrugged.

"Maybe. I know that I'd like to think so. Also—" She flushed a little bit, and seemed to have trouble making eye contact with Elaine. "I….I needed to test myself." Elaine's eyebrow quirked upward questioningly. "It doesn't mean anything if you only help people when it's easy for you, or convenient. I've always thought I wanted to help people, but if I found out that I only was interested when there was some kind of benefit for me—" Lenore's eyes flashed momentarily, as though angry at some forgotten conversation or memory. "I don't want to be a hypocrite. I figured there was no better way to test my resolve than here."

The Healer stopped after this outburst, seeming a bit surprised at how much of herself she had ended up revealing to Elaine. The older woman looked at Lenore for another moment, and then gave the Healer a smile. It was a rare expression on her face, and it lasted only briefly, but it was there.

"Thank you, Lenore." She adjusted her clipboard, then began walking away. "I occasionally find myself doubting whether this place has any meaning, or hope for a future…it's good to know that at least some people here are working for the greater good."

Lenore could do nothing but watch her walk away, the sun shining briefly through the clouds to pierce through the window behind her. She felt the sun's light warm her back quickly, and turned just in time to see it disappear behind the clouds. She did not know it, but that would be the last time she saw the sun for quite some time. In the distance, the clouds seemed like a reflection of the fog that seemed to be rising from the ocean in such copious amounts.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

James Noonan whistled to himself as he carefully navigated his ferry throught he mist and back towards the mainland. He was using the muggle instruments for fun's sake, but had spells ready to protect the ship from any unexpected collisions. Not that he thought such a thing was likely—after all, he had been sailing these waters his whole life. In fact, he had been giving thought lately to perhaps retiring, selling his ferry and moving farther inland. Certainly it might be warmer there, this cold was doing nothing good for his old bones…

He shivered, and suddenly realized that there was more to his discomfort than simple cold could allow for. A feeling of dread started sinking into him, from the pit of his stomach outward. Looking out the window of the cabin, the veteran of both of the wars against the Dark Lord Voldemort beheld a sight that paralyzed him with fear.

Drifting over the water was the largest group of dementors that James had ever seen in his life. Though the fog limited his range of vision down to perhaps twenty or thirty feet around the boat, the space he _could _see was nearly filled with them. There must have been more than thirty of the things, and he could see shapes moving in the mist outside of his vision that could easily have been more of them.

A terrible fear began rising in him, a fear that could only partially be attributed to the powers of the dementors. James knew the danger he faced, and was determined to escape it any way he could. He reached for his wand, hoping to use it to Apparate.

A shockingly cold and clammy hand grasped his own with a terrifying strength. James let out a piercing scream that no other human could hear.

The dementor had entered the cabin silently, and was flanked by at least three others. More might have been crowded outside, but the majority of the things seemed to be ignoring the ferry. These were the only ones who had stopped, perhaps sensing James's fear. His scream continued even as the dementor whose claw grasped his arm reached up with its other hand to pull back its hood, exposing a terrifying face whose maw was open and gaping, leaning forward to slowly envelop him—

The scream abruptly ended, the last of its echoes quickly fading as they were swallowed up by the mist. The dementors glided out of the ferry, leaving it to drift. They silently rejoined their brethren in their ceaseless journey, the journey that they and all of their kin around the world were undertaking—the slow but inevitable trek towards the Carroll Institute.


	3. The Storm Breaks

There was nothing for Charlie to do but stand awkwardly and stare at the back of Early's head as the man reacquainted himself with the shell that had formerly been his younger brother. The temptation to fidget was almost irresistible, but he managed to remain more or less still. With nothing but a tangled mess of hair to judge by, it was impossible to guess what might be going through his mind. Was he quietly accepting his brother's fate, or on the verge of a violent breakdown? Charlie didn't know—and frankly, there wasn't much he could do either way. He had never had much of a bedside manner even when he was at St. Mungo's, and it felt like it had been a long time since St. Mungo's--and even longer since his internship at Wellford's in Liverpool. All the time spent away from walking, talking patients hadn't done it much good.

For a moment, he nearly grew impatient with the man—after all, he had to get back to the Melvilles and take them over to the North Wing. But then, he was struck by the gut-twisting thought of how _he _would have been reacting if it were his brother. It was the sort of thought that dwelled in dark parts of the mind that we try to pretend don't exist, and he suppressed it with a grimace. Early could take all of the time that he wanted. However, that didn't change the fact that he needed to be leaving soon. Clearing his throat slightly, he took a small step closer to Early.

"Mr. Early, I'm going to take Mr. and Mrs. Melville over to see their daughter. I'll be back here to get you if you aren't finished by the time the ferry gets back." He faltered for a moment, feeling as though there were some sort of condolence he should add on to the end. Damn it, there wasn't a protocol for this. In the end, "Take your time" was the best he could do.

Early gave no response other than a slight twitch of the head that may or may not have been a nod. He had barely moved since he had seen his brother. Charlie nearly asked him if he was all right, but decided against it. The only other sign of movement in the man was a clenched, shaking fist.

Turning around, Charlie left Early to the silence of the halls and the remnants of his brother.

He passed by a nurse he vaguely recognized, a Beth-something or other. He nodded to her as she walked into the hallway he had just left, presumably to watch over the other patients on the floor. She would know not to bother Early or his comatose brother until after the visitors had left. He continued on until he reached the front desk, where the Melvilles were waiting for him. They appeared to have struck up a conversation with Nicholas.

"Well, yeah, sometimes the weather gets to be like it is today…this is no place anyone would want to live during the winter," Nicholas was saying as Charlie came into the room, "But there are some summer days that I would swear are just about perfect. It's an excellent beach on the northern half of the island, not as many rocks."

"I suppose we'll have to take your word for that, Mr. Gattabee," said Mrs. Melville with a worn smile on her tired looking face. "The fog on the way here was just dreadful."

"I was surprised the ferry could make it through, myself," said Mr. Melville with a bit of a chuckle. "Must have some damned good spells on that little boat to get through such a mess."

Nicholas laughed and said something in reply, but Charlie wasn't listening to it. He was watching the clerk instead, the way he spoke—he had something Charlie didn't. Something about the way he was talking to them was putting them at ease, making them more…._comfortable_ with why they were here. He didn't know how Nick did it, but he wished he could do the same. Forcing a smile to his face that he knew probably wasn't half as authentic looking as he'd like it to be, he walked up to the three.

"All right…well, Mr. Early is situated with his brother. Let's get over to the North Wing before that rain decides to start coming down on us."

The Melvilles nodded and said their goodbyes to Nicholas, who waved them off with a cheery smile. Very little of that cheer managed to follow them outside into the gloomy mist, but it was still something. Soon, he was caught up in conversation with the Mevilles—the longer he walked with them, the easier it was to forget about the awkwardness of his role as tour guide. Even his weariness was beginning to fade…he was still tired, but he didn't doubt that he could make it through the rest of this shift. Then it would be time for a good, long nap.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Henry and Tara Melville remained quiet for some time as they sat by their daughter's bedside. The way that they held each other's hands spoke more than any words, and the silence was more peaceful than pained.

Still, it was hard for Tara. Hard to look at her daughter's wasted face. The Healers here had kept her well, she was sure, but even the best magic could only do so much. She would slowly waste away…and one day, in a few years, she would slip away by herself in this place. She would—

Tara swallowed. She couldn't bring herself to even _think _the 'd' word. It was so…so final. She had thought that she was coping with what had happened to Anna well, but coming to see her again had opened up so many doors she had thought long closed. Tara sat there, holding her husband's hand, and doing what no parent should ever have to do—mourning the loss of her child.

Beside her, Henry was sitting stoically. His weathered face was outwardly calm, almost stern. Someone who didn't know him might have thought that he looked blank, or perhaps angry, but those who were closer to him would recognize the expression as one that he bore when thinking.

Henry was a strong-willed man. It was one of the reasons Tara loved him—when he had first met her, he had gone to such extravagant lengths to impress her that she had been charmed into accepting his invitations to a date. After that, it had been like…well, like magic. He had always done his best to pass down his strength of character to his only child. Never had he dreamed that the day might come when he could regret teaching his daughter to stand up for herself.

Now, as he watched her in the hospital bed, he couldn't help but think on how his little girl, who wasn't so little any more, had come to be in this place. She, like so few other wizards, had dared to stand up to the Dark Lord during his reign. For this Henry was fiercely proud, it did his heart good to know that his daughter had done the right thing. At the same time, though, a naggling worm in the back of his mind told him that if she had been just a bit more willing to keep her head down, to submit to the majority, she wouldn't be here. She would be out laughing, smiling, talking…and would never have fallen victim to one of those clammy, floating, grey _monstrosities_.

His hand trembled slightly. He couldn't regret teaching his daughter to be the best person she could be. He couldn't regret passing on what he knew of right and wrong to his child…that was his job. Nothing made him prouder than his daughter, and he would go to his grave proud of her for standing up to the most powerful dark wizard to ever curse the wizarding world. Still, he grieved, and the worm of doubt and fear persisted.

The Melvilles sat there for quite some time, eventually breaking the silence with small talk about old friends and neighbors that Anna once had known. They held each other's hands, silently fighting off the fears and doubts that plagued them both. They took solace in each other, and it was enough.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

From his office in the South Wing, Wesley could monitor or record virtually everything important on the island. He had access to the wards that had been installed there in the tension leading up to the second war with the Dark Lord. He received all mail directed to the Institute, and would later parcel it out to the staff—or discard the mail if it were addressed to a patient. The Institute's Wizarding Wireless radio was also housed in the spacious room, as well as a fireplace. They weren't wired into the Floo network, however—the Director before Wesley had made the decision to cut the island off during the peak of the Dark Lord's reign. It had been a risky move, and what would have happened to those essentially stranded on the island if Voldemort's reign had not been soon ended was anyone's guess.

The blaze in the fireplace crackled as Wesley pored over the budget paperwork, sending flickering shadows across his desk. He frowned as he traced his quill down each line of the parchmnent, muttering to himself as he checked the figures in his head. Every few moments he would stop and scribble something down, a spell in the quill checking his math for him. He was rarely wrong, but it was always good to have a failsafe.

In order to fight the boredom of working essentially by himself for the majority of the day, Wesley had turned on the Wireless to listen to whatever music they were able to receive out here. While the reception wasn't nearly as bad as it would have been for a muggle radio, the best he could get even _with _magic were extremely old Celestina Warbeck albums. Most of them were Christmas albums, and Wesley had heard the same song about twelve times in two days.

As he worked, the Wireless had begun to fade into the background of his attention, so much that he had virtually stopped noticing the sounds it made—until the first warble of static cut through the song. Wesley looked up with a frown, slightly surprised by the suddenness of the noise. The song continued uninterrupted for a moment, long enough to make him wonder if he had simply imagined the static. Then, it came again in a violent hiss. The static wavered in and out, growing stronger and stronger until, almost a minute later, the song was entirely consumed by the mindless hissing.

Wesley blinked, then slowly rose and tapped the Wireless with his wand, silencing the squealing noises it had been reduced to making. He stared at the device thoughtfully, quill and budget left abandoned on the desk. He had never seen a Wireless fail like this before….certainly, he had seen _muggle_ radios overcome with static due to bad reception or interference, but could the same thing happen to the WWN? He was no expert on the things. Either way, though, it would not do to have one of the island's few means of contacting the mainland out of service for any amount of time.

With a scowl at being interrupted from his work, Wesley put on his coat and moved towards the door. There was another Wireless in the East Wing, and the first thing to do would be to check and see if it was working any better. Perhaps the problem was just with the device itself, and not the network.

As he walked out the door, Wesley frowned as another thought occurred to him. It wouldn't be too much longer before the boat returned to pick up the visitors to the Institute. If the Wireless was still down when he arrived, they might not be able to receive the message of the captain's arrival. Hopefully, this would all be sorted out before then.

With a sigh, Wesley stepped out into the cold weather, hoping to repair a radio to receive a message that was never going to come. A malfunctioning Wireless would be among the least of his, and everyone else at the Institute's, problems.

That is, everyone who survived the next hour.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

With a cup of steaming tea in his hand, a good portion of which was already in his stomach, Charlie barely even noticed the cold as he left the dormitory's kitchen and walked across the grounds. The weather had gotten a little worse, but he was bolstered by the warmth of drink, the caffeine in his system, and the knowledge that he only had to collect Early and the Melvilles and bring them to the dock before he could go to sleep. It was almost enough to make him want to whistle as he walked, but he decided that that would probably look odd—he was already talking to himself more than he would like, and he didn't want to add 'random whistling' to his list of offenses against sane behavior.

He lifted the cup to his face to take another sip of the drink, but the tea tasted so good that the sip turned into a gulp. He became distracted for a moment, savoring the tea so much that he did not notice the presence of Lenore right in front of him. He bumped into her and only barely managed to avoid spilling the hot tea over the two of them.

"Oh, wow," he stammered out after a brief moment of choking on his tea, "Sorry, Lenore. I didn't see you there."

She smiled kindly, a bit of a flush coming to her cheeks.

"It's all right, Charlie, I should have been looking where I was going." The truth was, she _had _been looking, but had been wanting to talk to Charlie. True, she hadn't thought he would walk _into _her if she stood in front of him, but she hadn't made any real effort to get out of the way…

"Are you all done with your shift?" Charlie asked her, wiping a few drops of tea that had spilled onto his fingers away.

"Just about, yes. I was going to drop some paperwork by Elaine's office, then I'm all done for the day. What about you? I heard you had tour guide duty for the visitors today."

Charlie grimaced, and ran a hand through his hair, belatedly realizing how much of a mess he looked.

"Heh, dropping papers in the Lair?" He used the nickname for Elaine's laboratory and office that had cropped up amongst some of the workers in the Institute, after someone had noticed her resemblance to the stereotypical muggle 'mad scientist,' and thought that her workplace deserved a fitting name. If Elaine had ever heard the nickname, she had certainly given no sign of it. Lenore flushed once again, but couldn't hide the hint of a grin that came to her face.

"That's not a nice name for it, you know, she—"

"I know, I know," said Charlie with a wave of his hand and a grin of his own. The day was picking up already. "And yes, I'm the one that got dragged into being tour guide. I'm running on nothing right now but caffeine and grit." He gave a small yawn, but at least had the manners to look a bit embarrassed afterwards. "Sorry. But yeah, as soon as they're off this island I'm getting some shuteye."

Her smile faltered for a moment, and she wrung her hands together a bit.

"Oh. Well, I—"

Charlie cocked an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, if you're going to sleep, then I—"

"Were you going to say something?"

"Erm….well, if you had been free after your shift, I had wanted to see if you…" She trailed off a moment, biting back her nervousness. It seemed like it had been ages since she had asked anyone on a date. This stupid island made you lose all sense of time—and, it seemed, all sense of social grace. "Well, you know, if you wanted to get a drink at the kitchen. Or…I don't know, just talk?"

Charlie merely looked at her a moment, then grimaced. Of all the days…

"I'm really, really sorry," he said. "If this were any other day—I mean it, _any _other day—then you would have just made it. My day, I mean." He faltered for a moment, immediately cursing his attempt to be witty. "But I've pulled the night shift every day this week, and this tour thing—"

"It's all right, I understand." Lenore gave a strained smile and began to turn away. Charlie hand shot out and took her by the shoulder gently, keeping her from walking off.

"Do you think you could give me a rain check on that, though? Maybe tomorrow?"

After a short pause, a more genuine smile shone through Lenore's troubled expression. Maybe the day could be salvaged after all.

"That would be great, Charlie. I'll see you then."

With a grin that managed to take away some of the weariness on Charlie's face, he nodded.

"You can count on it."

They stood there and talked a moment longer before parting ways. It was the last moment the two would have for quite some time that could be said to resemble 'normal.'

They had perhaps minutes before the storm arrived. Maybe less.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

For most of his life, Brian hadn't considered himself to be very close to his brother. He had been…mildly fond of him, he supposed. The two had been more partners than brothers, helping each other in enterprises of crime. When he had gotten the news of Wyatt's sentencing, his initial reaction (other than surprise) had been relief that he had escaped his brother's fate, followed by concern as to how he would pull off the heists he had planned without any assistance. He had never really given himself any time to feel for his brother, or to do anything approaching mourning.

Now, standing in front of the wasted, breathing corpse that had once been his little brother, Brian was totally unprepared for the blows of emotion that struck at him. His fist trembled, and the only reason he remained so still while Charlie stood near him was that he was afraid that if he moved, he would not be able to control himself and would begin smashing things. He was only vaguely aware of when the Healer left the hallway. The sight of Charlie leaving, only glimpsed in his peripheral vision, was one of the last things he was aware of other than himself and his brother for some time.

Though none of the trembling present in his arm showed itself in his legs, Brian still felt as though he were about to collapse at he walked over. He slowly came to a halt as he stood by the edge of Wyatt's bed. He raised his arm up, bringing his hand towards his brother's face. He slowly traced a finger across his brother's cheek, barely noting how wasted it had become. Then, in a flash, his fist clenched, and he spun to slam his fist into the wall over Wyatt's bed. He barely felt the flash of pain in his knuckles as the skin broke and bones threatened to break.

"You idiot!" He roared at his brother's unresponsive form. "You let yourself get caught, you dumb son of a _bitch_!"

What had started out as a sick, twisting guilt from the sight of his brother had blossomed into rage. Rage towards the damned Ministry for doing this to his own blood, rage towards the dementors for even _existing, _being such monstrosities…but also rage towards his brother, for being so _stupid_ as to end up in this hospital in the first place. Brian clutched as his hair, tempted to start ripping it out in frustration. He had been unprepared to _feel _so much, to be so shaken by the sight of his little brother, wasting away, _rotting _like a piece of dead _meat_…

He roared once more and raised his fists, wheeling to face his brother head on. He nearly struck out at Wyatt's lifeless form, only stopping himself just in time. Wyatt's bland, unconscious face seemed to have taken on a quality of scorn to it. Almost as though he were looking at the actions of his older brother and sneering in disgust.

"Don't you _dare_ look at me that way," Brian growled at his brother, forgetting the ridiculousness of talking to someone who had lost his soul. "You little sot, don't you _forget_ who taught you everything you know! Who do you think was looking out for you all those years? Mum?" He spat contemptuously on the floor by the cot. "You know damned well you'd be dead if it weren't for me. And what do you do? You go out and waste all my work doing something _stupid_ like getting caught and—"

He faltered there for a moment, because—to his shock—something happened to Brian that had not happened to him since his early childhood. His throat began to clench as his eyes watered, on the verge of tears.

Brian Early was nearly crying.

He had been the one to take care of his brother. He had essentially raised Wyatt, teaching him everything he knew. Everything from feeding himself to magic to thieving without getting caught. And it hadn't been enough.

Damn it, it hadn't been enough.

For a moment, Brian Early tottered on the edge of guilt and rage, and could have swung either way. However, when he next looked into Wyatt's face, his vision blurred by unshed tears, he thought he saw a glint in Wyatt's unblinking eyes. A glint of some unknowable emotion—anger, or blame, or even twisted mirth. That gleam, existing only in the depths of Brian's imagination, was the final straw to push an already desperate, unstable man over the edge.

With a strangled scream of rage, Brian ripped the pillow out from under Wyatt's head. He neither noticed nor cared when his brother's head limply fell, knocking into the wall behind the cot with a painful sounding thud.

He couldn't stand to look at those sightless eyes any more, those damnable, _staring_ eyes! Even now, as he held the pillow in his hands, they seemed to be staring up at him. In his mind, he could almost picture his brother's already twisted face twisting even further into a sick, morbid grin. The eyes would fill with rage and blame, staring a hole into his mind through the darkness. Eyes that would remain open for the rest of eternity—no matter how far he ran, he would always know they were here, staring through the walls of the Institute, across the sea, across entire _universes_ only to stare at him. No longer.

Those damned eyes were going to close, and his brother was going to stop continuing to exist in this mockery of life.

He slammed the pillow down over Wyatt's face with a grunt of exertion, panting as he held it down with all the force he could muster. Even as he held it there, he could feel those eyes staring at him through the thin fabric and stuffing. Sweating trickling down his face, he held the pillow down—goosebumps raised on his arms as he felt the heat from his brother's limp, unresisting body beneath him. It felt unnatural that there was no struggle, no attempt to preserve whatever type of life existed in what was left of Wyatt. Brian half expected his brother's arm to rise up, and his hand to clamp over his own and try to pry the fingers away from his weapon.

There was no movement, no fight. There was no surcease of struggle either, to signify that Wyatt had died. It occurred to Brian's rage-twisted, haggard mind that he would have to remove the pillow himself to check if Wyatt had truly stopped breathing. A fear suddenly surfaced deep in the pit of his stomach that if he moved the pillow, he would stare into Wyatt's face—and Wyatt would stare back, that imagined grin having formed in reality. Right now, the pillow was the only thing separating Brian from that nightmarish visage, and he lacked the strength to tear it away. And so, he held it there—until he heard a gasp in the hallway to his right.

His entire body went rigid, except for his neck as Brian slowly turned to look to his right. A woman dressed in a nurse's uniform was standing at the end of the hallway, her clipboard lying on the ground where she had dropped it in surprise. Her face was pale and her mouth open as she stammered for words that wouldn't come.

Some calculating part of Brian's mind that had been dormant during his rage clicked back into motion. It was far too late to attempt any sort of cover up—she had walked around the corner and seen him hunched over his brother, holding a pillow over his head to smother him. There was no turning back from that. He had only one option, he needed to stop her.

"_Stupefy!" _he roared, pointing his wand at her. She squealed and ducked under it, the stunning spell missing her by only a hair. In that time he was running towards her, wand raised to launch another spell towards her.

"_Obliviate!" _If he could wipe her memory, then there was still a chance to get out of this.

The nurse had fumbled for her wand, and managed to clumsily bat aside his memory charm. He could tell by her motions that she had probably never been in a real duel before, she could not continue blocking him for long. Then, to his surprise, she raised her wand towards him with a shaking arm.

"_S-stupefy!" _The stammer did not make her Stunning spell any less effective. It came shooting towards Brian. Though poorly aimed, he still stumbled to the side. His ankle twisted under him, and he fell to the ground near her feet. Their wands simultaneously darted forward, and for a moment the air was a haze of flashing spells and shouted hexes. Brian lost himself in the well of rage that the sight of his brother had only recently tapped. His senses returned with a flash of green light and the sound of a body thudding to the ground. As he panted, he saw the nurse's sightless eyes staring up at him from the ground.

Brian slowly sat up, panting harshly from the exertion of killing his brother and dueling this doomed, foolish nurse. For a moment, he did nothing but cradle his head in his hands, trembling with rage, adrenaline, and confusion. Then, his face a stony mask, he stood and lifted his wand.

He had to hide this, and get off of this island as soon as possible.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

There is often to said to be a silence, a calm that comes before the storm. Before the storm broke on the Institute, the silence was filled with an eerie dread, and a shudder passed through every human resident on the island.

All across the Institude, nurses and Healers paused in their rounds or stirred in their beds.

Lenore and Charlie looked up from their conversation and shivered, looking at the window near the front desk of the East Wing.

Two floors above them, Elaine shivered as she read through an old man's chart. She looked around for the source of the chill, but saw nothing. She did not hear anything either—yet.

Brian paused over the corpse of the nurse as he prepared to attempt to transfigure it into something easier to dispose of. For a moment he was sure someone was watching him and looked around hurriedly. He saw no one.

Wesley was nearing the front door of the East Wing when he spotted Charlie and the Melvilles just as they were passing the fountain in the middle of the grounds. He gave them a polite nod, then turned back to open the door to the Wing. He stopped as a chill ran down his spine. Charlie and the Melvilles slowed in their steps for a moment as a breeze ran through the courtyard. A raindrop splashed onto Charlie's palm, and it was cold. He flinched at the impact, feeling mildly embarrassed that he was so on edge. Then, he saw the first hint of movement in the fog that had begun to surround the island. The chill that had passed through him briefly returned, and brought with it a weight that settled in his stomach and weakened his knees. He felt the whisper of despair, sadness and fear welling up inside of him, as though every negative emotion he had ever felt were being brought to the front of his soul.

Drifting through the fog was a solitary dementor, appearing almost weightless as it effortlessly glided from the sea to the land. Then, a second shape appeared next to it, and then a third. Then, dozens. He heard Tara gasp next to him, and saw Henry stiffen. They had seen them too. He turned to tell them to follow him, and quickly, and nearly froze.

The dementors were coming from behind him too. They were between the gaps of all the buildings, drifting in terrifying silence. Sounding as if it came from a long distance, Charlie heard a scream coming from near the East Wing. It was a Healer he vaguely recognized, and the dementors were almost upon him. He disappeared into their masses, and then he was silent. It was enough to shock Charlie into realizing, truly realizing, what was happening.

The dementors were swarming. There were hundreds of them.

Thousands.

A/N: Thanks for reading this far, everyone. This is where things get to be a bit more interesting—less dialogue, and a lot more frantic attempts at survival. Just a few things to say before I conclude this chapter.

The first is an apology for the time between chapters recently. I've had to deal with a lot of schoolwork and college applications, which are thankfully over now. I should be able to devote a bit more time to this fanfic now, though I've got some other original pieces of work that also have my attention, and lots of fun things to do with scholarships.

The second is on the subject of the scene where Brian kills his brother and Nurse Beth. That was meant to be a pretty intense moment for him, and I can only hope that I did it justice. I hope all you readers found his slip into homicidal rage to be realistic, and, of course, entertaining—you sick readers, you.

As always, please read and review!


	4. Behind the Wards

The Dementors moved like a cloud, individual spectres emerging from the mass for only a moment before disappearing once again in the tumult. At first, Charlie thought that they were letting out a horrible shrieking noise, but then realized they were dead silent—the only screams echoing through the square were his own.

Next to him, he was vaguely aware of the Melvilles gasping. Henry was cluthing a hand to his chest, his face pale. Tara was only just managing to support him. On some level, Charlie knew that the Dementors would use their paralysis to swoop in and transform them into lifeless husks, but any sort of rational thought was struggling for breath under the staggering weight of Charlie's fear.

With one hand, he groped for his wand. He was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. A scream rang out as he saw one unfortunate orderly run out from one of the Wings only to fall into the Dementors' waiting clutches. Managing to wrestle his wand from his pocket, he blanked for a moment on what he should do. The spell came back to him soon enough—though it was a difficult charm, and not required for the job, there were few who looked at the Dementors' handiwork every day without being inspired to learn the one charm that could effectively repel them.

"_Expect-_" Charlie coughed, feeling like he wanted to shrivel up in a corner. "_Expecto patronum!_"

He thought of the first happy memory he could—not one of Janice, the bad memories there were still fresh enough to sour the good. Instead, he thought of the last day of his seventh year at Hogwarts, his graduation. One of the happiest days of his life.

A wisp of silver smoke spewed from the end of his wand, but failed to solidify into its typical bear shape. Instead, it just wafted weakly towards the Dementors. Something was wrong.

Even though the patronus was weak, it still gave Charlie a moment of relief. His thoughts cleared enough for him to realize that the way to the East Wing was clear, and that any creature in the square that wanted to keep its soul where it belonged needed to get inside. Charlie staggered over to the Melvilles and got his free arm under Henry's shoulder, keeping his wand at the ready—not that it had done him much good so far.

The three of them slowly forced their way to the door. Charlie became aware of two other figures in the square with them—Lenore, who had been behind him, was now rushing towards him and the Melvilles with her wand extended, silver mist streaming from its tip; and Wesley, who was holding open the door and shouting something towards them. It was all just a buzzing in Charlie's ears, buried under the noise of his frantically beating heart, but it spurred him on.

The small group of Healers and visitors stumbled their way across the yard, the mist their wands had summoned growing thinner as the Dementors drew closer. Charlie forced himself to focus on nothing but the door in front of him, the gateway into the East Wing and the safety that came with it. Wesley was brandishing his wand at something just outside of Charlie's line of sight, and he did not turn to see what it was. Instead, he pushed every ounce of his strength into pulling the Melville's along faster and overcoming the almost physical weight in the air that the foul creatures had brought with them. For a moment, he almost fel the touch of a mottled hand at his back, and he nearly screamed—and then they were inside, the four of them panting in the lobby as the East Wing as Nicholas ran over to them and Wesley slammed the door shut. The Director then leaned against it as though he were about to collapse.

Charlie gasped for breath, and remembered the feeling he had had just before getting indoors, that of being touched. He opened his mouth to speak, and nearly asked Wesley if any of the Dementors had been behind him. Then he saw the look in the pale, terrified face of Wesley, and decided that he did not really want to know.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Elaine had almost finished examining the patient when the screams began. At first, some part of her brain tried to tell her that nothing was wrong, that visitors often lost their nerve upon seeing their loved ones—but in her heart, she knew it wasn't so. The next scream confirmed it, as did the one after that. They were not screams of grief and anguish, but of mortal terror…and they were coming from outside.

A pool of ice formed in Elaine's stomach as one of the screams was cut abruptly short. Not just her stomach—it seemed that the whole room had grown chillier. Hand going to her wand, she ran to the window. She did not know what she had expected to see (images of Death Eater attacks, even though Potter had ended the war almost fourteen years ago, came to mind.)

What she saw was a gray blanket spread across the grounds—a mist sprinkled with the occasional face or hand, a mist that was more cloak than vapor. She saw a few small figures clad in the cloaks of wizards fleeing into the Wings…but only a few. The other staff was either off the island on leave, safely inside one of the buildings…or out there in that mass of cloaks and mottled hands.

Elaine's fingers trembled, and for a moment she found herself lost for words—no, lost for breath, lost for thought, lost for life. She had only seen Dementors twice in her life before, and only two at a time. Even then, it had been one of the worst experiences of her life. The idea of so _many_…it was terrifying. Inconceivable. She wanted to deny what she had seen and go back to work, denying its possibility. But that way lay madness. Instead she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them once more. The horde remained, though they appeared to be stopped outside the Wings. She grimaced, steeled herself, then began to calmly walk down the stairs.

The patient, as well as the clipboard she had left by his bedside, were forgotten.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Wesley ran a hand through his hair, attempting to straighten it. The Director had to keep up appearances, after all, especially in times of crisis….he nearly laughed at the absurdity of fussing with his _hair_, when there was a pack of Dementors outside, a _throng_, a—he bit down on any laughter. This would be a terrible time to give in to hysterics.

Charlie had risen to a sitting position, still out of breath. Panting, he looked up at Wesley as Nicholas bustled over to the Melvilles. Henry's face was a flushed red, and he kept clutching at his sides and chest as he regained his breath. Mrs. Melville was slightly better off, but looked almost deathly pale.

"What the hell is that?" Charlie gasped out.

There was no response. Charlie had directed the question at Wesley, but it rang out to everyone in the room—only to be met with silence. Straightening his glasses, Wesley stood up straight and stepped away from the door. He was almost surprised when he was able to stand without leaning on it, but tried not to show it on his face. Clearing his throat, he looked out at the others in the room—Charlie, Lenore the Melvilles, Nicholas, and two other orderlies who had heard the commotion—and saw their frightened faces. He realized he probably didn't look much better.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started, his voice wavering slightly, "As you no doubt can see, we are in the midst of a crisis." He paused, unsure of how to continue. What possible words could he use to name the horror outside? Clearing his throat, he continued. "A…a large swarm of Dementors has…has attacked."

He paused once again, but this time Charlie had regained a bit more of his breath.

"Large? Merlin's beard, Wesley, it's a damn _army_ out there. I've _never_ seen—"

"Yes, thank you, Healer Holcomb," Wesley said quickly, his voice creeping slightly higher. "As I said, there is a swarm of Dementors outside, and we can only assume them to be hostile." He gained strength as he went on, finding comfort in the formality of his speech, using the carefully constructed sentences as a barrier between himself and what was happening. "The wards we installed during the war are qualified to repel Dementors, so as long as everyone remains inside we should be—we will be fine. We will be fine, yes." He coughed into one hand, flushing slightly.

"Did everyone get inside?" Lenore's voice cut through the silence like a bell, albeit a worried one. Wesley opened his mouth then closed in once more. He could not answer.

"No," said Charlie quietly. "No, they did not."

Wesley nearly spoke to berate him again, to restore order, but held himself back. He was only just realizing that he had no idea which of the men and women he saw every day were still alive.

Well, they were _all _still alive, technically. After all, the Dementors didn't kill you. They only swept down upon you, claws extended, mottled face leaning in to send you off to a lifetime of sterile cots and lifeless staring, _eyes_—

Wesley just barely managed to make it to the wastebasket by Nicholas's desk before being violently ill.

He pulled his head up with flushed cheeks, expecting looks of disgust or scorn. Instead, he saw grief-stricken, frightened faces—some of which looked as though they might be ill as well.

"Sorry about that," he said with a grimace. He drew his wand and tapped the edge of the wastebasket. "_Scourgify!" _There was a slight hissing sound, but no other effect. He frowned, and cleared his throat. "_Scourgify!_" Once again, there was no effect.

"Are you all right, Mr. Dunkirk?" Nicholas leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mustn't overexert yourself…allow me." Nicholas drew his wand, a knotted stick of birch, and tapped it on the wastebasket. "_Scourgify!_"

The result was no different from when Wesley had tried. Charlie exchanged a worried glance with Lenore, then looked down at his wand. Wesley may have been a bureaucrat, but that didn't mean that he wasn't capable. And Nicholas could surely cast a simple cleaning charm…

"_Lumos_," muttered Charlie under his breath. The tip of his wand may have flickered for a moment, but if so it died away quickly. His heart began to beat bit faster. Something was wrong—first his patronus had been weaker than normal, and now he couldn't even manage to cast lumos, a spell that even first-years at Hogwarts could manage. What the hell was going on?

"What's wrong?" asked Tara, rising to her feet. "Is something the matter?"

By this point, Charlie wasn't the only one trying at his wand. One of the orderlies—a man named Winchester—was frowning as he jabbed his wand at a potted plant next to him, with no result. Lenore was also running her wand along her hand and muttering something under her breath. Charlie had no idea what they were trying to do, but it wasn't working. A chill went through him. He hadn't been without magic since he was twelve, perhaps even younger.

"What's wrong with our wands?" he asked.

"Why can't we cast spells?" Lenore's voice called out.

"What's going on here?" Henry's question came out in between pants for air.

"How could this—"

"But why—"

"—like _muggles_, just like—"

""Silence, _please_!" Wesley's voice rang out above the growing murmur of questions just before it crested into a roar. "It appears that something is affecting our wands, but the wards appear to be unaffected. We are still safe." He paused to let that sink in. Wesley stood with one hand on the desk, looking slightly green but still firm. "Now. Even without wands we are still wizards, and fully capable of rational thought. Does anyone know what could be causing this…this malfunction?"

There was a short silence, broken as Henry coughed and straightened himself.

"What do you mean, 'what'?" He asked, his face still slightly flushed. "Haven't you looked outside?"

Wesley blinked.

"Well, yes, but—"

"You've never been to Azkaban, have you, son?"

Wesley opened his mouth as if to protest at being called 'son,' but settled for shaking his head.

"well, if you had, you'd know the feeling." Henry shook his head as if warding off some terrible memory. "when the Dementors ran the place…they don't just drain happiness, you know. It's like them being there just draws the life out of a place. Made them damn good guards—it's hard to cast spells with them around."

Charlie frowned and took a step towards the two.

"Wait…I mean, sure, it's harder to concentrate with them around…but to stop our magic?" Charlie looked incredulous, but a hint of worry lingered at the corner of his eye. "There's no way they'd be able to do that, it doesn't add up. If they could stop magic, the Ministry would never have trusted them."

Henry snorted at that, but before he could speak Lenore cut in.

"But maybe…" She faltered slightly as every eye in the room turned to her, but continued strongly. "Well, did you see how many there were out there?" She shuddered slightly at that, and Charlie couldn't fault her. "I've never even heard of so many in one place before. Maybe…maybe with so many, all here, they just drain…well—"

"Yes, yes," said Wesley quietly, "That would make sense. Maybe it _is _possible…if their aura is influencing us, and is greatly magnified, then—"

"What do you mean, 'if it's affecting us'?" said Henry. "Don't you feel it? It never stopped."

With a jolt, Charlie realized that the older man was right. That sense of despair, that horrid _coldness_ that he had felt in the Dementors' presence…it had never gone away. It had faded as he came indoors, but he could still feel it. It was a tickle at the back of his mind—almost like an irritating sound, you could manage to forget it was there until someone reminded you. But, even if forgotten, it was still there.

"But—" Wesley stammered, "That shouldn't be possible…the wards…"

"You think that your wards were made for this many?" Henry shook his head. "Not a chance."

The implications of that began to sink in, fanning the flames of doubt that already flickered in their thoughts. Wesley coughed.

"Regardless, the wards have held. Our first course of action must be to gather all of the survivors in the Wing." His tongue nearly slipped on the word 'survivors,' but he continued on gamely—his brow was furrowed determinedly, and he spoke with the strength of a bureaucrat who had a procedure to follow. "Healers and orderlies, please search the Wing for any remaining personnel or visitors, and regroup here."

The mumbled assortment of responses was hardly as concise as Wesley would have liked, but it would have to do for now. He sighed, and let his body relax for the first time since he had begun speaking. Order was still being followed; structure had not yet been lost. Nothing was out of control.

Charlie held the door for Lenore as Winchester and the other orderly—Havelock? Hancock?—headed for the elevator. She caught his eye as she passed, and he gave her a weak smile.

"I think we might have to put that drink on hold for another day or two," he said. She smiled back, but there was no laugh—the smiles they both held only barely concealed the tension within. Without any more words between them, they stepped out of the lobby and began to walk through the not-quite-empty halls of the Institute.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Brian heard no screams. He only barely felt the chill. The sinking weight of the Dementors' influence went unnoticed next to the realization that he was in deep, deep trouble.

He jabbed the corpse once more with his wand, almost snarling the incantation. The woman's eyes simply stared back at him, sightless and mocking. His fist clenched, and he had to fight off the urge to strike at the dead nurse. He had botched this enough already, but it was still salvageable—if he could keep his head.

_I must still be too worked up from the fight. That's it_. Brian's hands were still shaking from the rush of adrenaline. _I'll just have to try something other than Transfiguration, something less difficult._ Brian snorted. He'd never been that good at the fancy rubbish anyway. He rolled up his sleeves. A Reducto curse would suffice. Messier, and more time consuming, but he could always clean up after. With a flourish, he pointed his wand at the body.

"_Reducto!_"

Nothing happened, and Brian's jaw clenched. What was wrong? He'd never been great shakes at magic, but this was…he looked down at the woman again. Had she done something to him? Hit him with some strange hex that he hadn't noticed? He frowned, and stared down at her. The bitch hadn't been much of a duelist, but maybe…

Brian gave a start, cocking one ear. Had those been footsteps? He tensed, clutching his wand by instinct even though it now appeared to be useless. After a moment of silence he relaxed, though not completely. He had most likely been hearing things, but he still needed to get rid of the body. With a frown, he pocketed his wand. There was no time to figure out what was wrong with his wand. He would simply have to hide her. Leaning over to reach her, Brian clasped his hands around her wrists and hoisted her up to a sitting position. With a grunt of effort he got his hands under her and lifted her lifeless body. She was heavier than he looked…he would have to find somewhere quickly.

Keeping as quiet and moving as quickly as possible. Brian began to carry the corpse through the hallway.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

As Wesley stood near the window, looking out of it and conferring quietly with Nicholas, Henry and Tara both sat in chairs against the far wall of the Institute. They were the only visitors in the room, and all the other hospital personnel had either left on Wesley's orders or were otherwise occupied. They were alone.

Tara's hand had scarcely left Henry's shoulder for a moment since they had gotten inside, and every few minutes Henry would feel it tighten briefly, as though seeking reassurance that he was really there. He turned to her.

"Are you all right?"

"Me? Henry, of course I'm all right, it's you that I—"

"I'm fine, Tara, really,"

"But you were gasping something dreadful, and you know your heart—"

He put his hand around hers on his shoulder and squeezed it gently, and she trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and quiet.

"Tara, I'm all right. I admit it, when those…_things_ appeared, it was like I was being crushed. Like every bad thing that ever happened to me was waiting right around the corner, like—it was a bit much. But now I'm all right." He smiled at her. "We're inside, and shut off from those things. I feel better now, really."

She looked at him, and did not return the smile.

"You know very well those things are still out there. And if I can still feel them, so can you. I know that you don't want to show it, but you can _not_ just soldier on pretending everything is okay if it's not."

"I feel fine, Tara. Just a bit winded."

She gave him another long stare, one that was normally reserved for when he had forgotten the groceries or when Anna had lied about some sort of grade in school. Doing his best not to waver under it, he looked her in the eye as he spoke honestly—at least, mostly honestly. After all, he _was_ only a bit winded. Sure, he had felt a bit off before, and there had been a moment where he had been sure that his heart had been about to beat out of his chest…but it had been a moment of panic. A totally natural reaction to a horde of Dementors, anyone could have had it. Besides, there was no use worrying now. Seeming to agree to a truce, if not total acceptance of what she had said, Tara wrapped her arm around Henry's waste and scooted closer towards him.

"All right, then. But if you start being stupid and trying to bite off more than you can chew, I'm going to have to just get one of those nice young orderlies to sit on you until you behave."

Though he knew she was serious in her concern for him, he couldn't help but smile.

"Well, that's why I married you. Always finding such creative ways to take care of me."

She smirked, and the two held each other. Meanwhile, Wesley and Nicholas stood at the window. The Director's face was no longer green, though he still looked as though he were sick to the stomach as he surveyed the grounds of the Institute through the warded glass. Nicholas stood next to him, his face lined with age and worry, and a seriousness that he had not held in quite some time.

"Are you all right, Mr. Dunkirk?" He had asked the question before, but somehow Wesley got the impression that this time he was not referring only to the fact that Wesley had been physically ill. He sighed, but did not turn from the window.

"I have certainly been better, Mr. Gattabee."

"Please. Call me Nick, or Nicholas."

"All right, then. Nicholas." Welsey looked at the older man, a clerk at the wizarding world's least desirable place of employment after Azkaban, out of the corner of his eye.

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr.—Nicholas, what brought you out here to the Institute?"

Nicholas grimaced slightly and stretched, his eyes never leaving the window. The mist had stopped building, and had instead leveled off with only a light amount of fog. The other Wings were still visible, though not clearly, but beyond that was nothing but the writhing figures of Dementors. Not so much writhing anymore, though—now they mostly held still.

" Well, that's a bit of a story, Mr. Dunkirk," he said. "Could say I just looked at it as a stepping stone to retirement, a sight easier than a desk job at St. Mungo's or another big city hospital."

"Have you always been a clerk?" Realizing the question might have come across as derisive, Wesley stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"

"Quite all right, quite all right." Nicholas absent-mindedly adjusted his name tag, which had become slightly crooked. "Used to be a Healer, as a matter of fact."

Wesley turned to look at him, surprised.

"Really? Then, why are you….well, you know…"

"Here?" At Wesley's nod, Nicholas only grimaced again. "I suppose you could say the profession didn't agree with me. And you, sir?"

Wesley went still for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter.

"My family has been in Healing for generations, I went into the field after my father. He had me placed in a managing position at St. Abernathy's, in Lancaster. It didn't go terribly well, and since then…well, he's been trying to find a place where I can redee—prove myself. Get some experience."

Nicholas nodded, declining to comment on the matter. Wesley continued on, staring out at the cloaked figures in the grounds.

"I suppose that this is going to be quite the black mark on my record…" He cut himself off. "I'm sorry, what a terrible thing to think, when we're all—"

"It's all right, Mr. Dunkirk." Nicholas smiled. "I'm sure that things will turn out all right somehow. After all, we're safe in here. And someone is bound to come looking, even if we can't find a way to contact the mainland."

Wesley began to reply, but then stopped. His eyes widened.

"Oh…..oh, my…" He said in a rather small voice. Eyes questioning, Nicholas turned and looked more closely out the window. What he saw put a knot in his stomach.

A small gap in the crowd of Dementors revealed a gathering of what looked like human shapes by the fountain in the center of the square. It was hard to recognize them from the distance, but Nicholas could see that several of them were wearing the uniforms of Healers or orderlies. And they were standing with a posture that he knew all too well—the listless, limp stance of those who had fallen victim to the Dementor's Kiss, and lacked any sense of reason to drive the empy shells that were left behind.

Silent and staring, the wretched 'survivors' of the Dementor's rush swayed in the square, oblivious to their surroundings, as two horrified onlookers watched from the relative and supposed safety of the East Wing.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Charlie separated from Lenore shortly after they left the lobby, leaving to let her take the northern hallway of the first floor as he continued up the stairs to the third. Once she was out of his sight, though, he slowed to a halt and reached his hand out to the wall as if using it to hold himself up. He closed his eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths. The adrenalin rush from all that had happened was fading, and the reality of the situation was hitting his body hard. He felt like doing nothing but curling up in a corner and letting someone else deal with the problem.

_Focus, Charlie_, he told himself firmly. _You're in a hell of a fix, and you're not the only one. There are other people counting on you, and you are as sure as hell not going to let anyone else end up like one of those vegetables. Especially not you, or her._ He felt suddenly selfish for that last thought, but couldn't help it. Lenore was one of the few people on this miserable island that he had managed to have a decent conversation with, and he suddenly felt himself feeling oddly protective. That, combined with the prospective date—well, drink, that they had planned….

He nipped that train of thought in the bud. There was no time to get distracted by something like that, not now. Workplace relationships were tricky enough in the best of times, and at the moment he would be happy to get off of this island alive. Romance could come later, if at all. Not that he would mind the chance to try—

Muttering to himself under his breath about his own lack of self control, Charlie was startled by the sight of Elaine coming down the stairs towards him.

"Cripes, Winters! You're here?"

"You don't sound happy to see me, Healer Holcomb."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean—it's just…well, there's a hell of a situation outside."

"I noticed, Healer." For the first time, Charlie noticed that, though her lips were pressed tighter than normal, there was the hint of a tremor in Elaine's voice and her eyes were wide. Biting back the sort of retort that the cold and somewhat reclusive woman would normally have received from him, Charlie decided to remain more cordial.

"Wesl—er, Director Dunkirk is trying to gather everyone in the Wing to the lobby to come up with a plan. Have you seen anyone else on your way down?"

She shook her head, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

"No, I have not. Tell me…has Wesley, or anyone else, posed any sort of theories as to what could be behind this?"

Charlie shrugged.

"I don't think anyone has a ruddy clue. He'll probably be glad to see you, though—you probably know more about Dementors than anyone else here. Maybe the two of you will be able to put your heads together and think of something."

Elaine flushed for a moment, but then her face grew pensive.

"Yes…" she murmured. "Yes, I suppose that's true. In that case, I will head on to the lobby. I do not believe there is anyone else on the third floor, but I can't speak for any of the others." Charlie nodded.

"Thank you, Healer." The title still applied to Elaine even though she did little actual Healing in the traditional sense—her studies were more of a theoretical nature. Charlie began to head past her, up the stairs. "I'm going to double check the other floors to see if anyone else was inside." He paused. "That is, if you're—will you be all right going to the lobby on your own?"

She smiled wryly.

"I'm sure I'll find some way to manage, Healer Holcomb." As he turned away, grimacing, she reconsidered what he had said. "Thank you for the offer, though. And…be careful."

With that, she headed down the stairs, thinking quickly and worriedly about the plight that had befallen her Institution.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Winchester swore as he wiped the last bit of soot off of his sleeves, trying vainly to clean his hands. He should have known better than to trust the elevator…Hancock had had the right idea, taking the stairs. He sighed. At least he had managed to pry the hatch on the roof open, even if the climb between floors had been a bit tricky.

Yes, he was definitely going to use the stairs from now on.

Winchester wasn't paying too close attention as he walked down the hallway—it was unlikely that there were any personnel who hadn't noticed what was going on. How could it be missed, what with an entire swarm…

He shuddered. That didn't bear thinking about, no sir. Neither did the fact that most of the people who weren't safely inside could be considered as good as dead. Merlin's beard, he himself would have been outside walking if it weren't for the fact that Hancock had asked him for a hand moving a patient.

He started walking faster. He definitely owed Pete a drink if they got out of here. Several, in fact. Of course, that was assuming they got out of this place at all. He had seen a Dementor raid before, during the Dark Lord's reign, and it had been nasty. No, he didn't have any illusions about the danger they were in. All he could do—

Winchester rounded a corner and found himself standing only scant feet from a man with messy hair and a slightly disarrayed robe. Letting out a startled yelp, he jumped back and fumbled for his wand before tripping and landing on his rear. The man held up his hands disarmingly, stepping forward with a raised brow.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you—I just got lost, you see, and my brother—"

"Sweet merciful God," exclaimed Winchester quietly, heart pounding. "Bloody hell, you scared the daylights out ofme. You're—you're one of the visitors, then?"

The man seemed slightly taken aback.

"Yes, I am. But something's wrong, my brother—"

"I know very well that something's wrong. We need to get ourselves back to the lobby as quick as possible."

The man tensed, but Winchester was already turning back to head to the staircase.

"Has something happened? Is…is anyone hurt?" The man's tone sounded a bit off, perhaps slightly guarded, but Winchester could hardly blame him. Things were strange and unsettling enough here without suddenly bumping into people in dim hallways.

"Merlin's beard, you don't know, do you?" Winchester nearly tried to explain, then shook his head. "You'll see soon enough. Sooner than you'd like, most likely. Come along then, Mister--?"

For the first time, the man's face became less guarded, and more curious—but not afraid. Not yet.

"Brian Early," he said with a nod. The two headed back to the stairway. The dim hallway was left behind them—a bland, sterile place filled with nothing but a few patients on cots and an unlocked doorway leading up to the attic's storage space.


End file.
